


Maybe it Should Hurt More

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark, Drama, Erotica, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-23
Updated: 2007-03-06
Packaged: 2018-10-26 14:23:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10788510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Sometimes pretending is the only way to survive.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

The hard light hit his lidded eyes like shards of glass streaking cuts across his irises. His consciousness raised a little more, eyes unopened to the light seeping through his lids, he became aware of the heat, stifling hot and sticky. The air thick, unventilated, hit his nostrils with the acrid smell of a summer lasting too long, yesterday’s sweat-soaked clothes braising in the sunlight and the stench of too much dirty sex.  

Then it came. The painful thump-thump pause thump-thump pause of the blood in his head. He raised his heavy hand to his eyes to shield them from the light streaming in from the closed window. The pressure was immense, bearing down on his sockets and squeezing his brain until it felt like the slightest movement would crush his skull. He would give anything to go back to sleep and dream of nothing, but each second brought him back closer to consciousness. 

He thought he might be sick. 

With pained expression he heaved his aching body to the right, turning his head last to stem the pain he know movement would cause. Slowly. He tipped his legs carefully to a sitting position, twisting his body to the right, trying not to move his upper limbs. His elbows crept back and pushed up carefully. He lifted his head and groaned as the surge of re-energised blood rushed to his ears.  

This was a bad idea, all of it.  

His feet touched the ground as the first surge of bile teased at the base of his oesophagus, making him retch from the bottom of his gut. He could feel it now, the thump-thump was deafening and he had to move and make it worse or it would be too much to bear in the heat and stillness.  

One, two, three he counted and breathed deeply to ease his stomach as he launched himself, staggering on his shaking, sweat soaked legs, across the room to the door. Through and out to the hall and across to the bathroom, stumbling on discarded clothing, stubbing his toe on the door frame of the bathroom but momentum propelling him forward to lurch into the bathroom just in time. 

He collapsed at the toilet basin and retched painfully with no prize, followed by another. The third bought his evening and night back to the surface with stark contrast to its consistency of a few hours before.  

The thump-thump continued. Each heave cleaving more pressure on his addled brain, until he was spent. Breathing the acrid smell deeply, trying to regain his breath he pulled the chain with his head still resting on the seat. He sat on the floor in the echoing stillness of the bathroom and asked himself why.  

His legs ached from his sprawled position on the floor, one tucked under him he had neither the strength or will to move and risk breaking the seemingly comfortable place he was in. Despite knowing that it hurt to lay like this, with his face on the toilet seat, he would not risk moving when the world didn’t spin and he did not feel sick.  

The thump-thump was sated for a while as he drifted back into unconsciousness on the bathroom floor.   

When he awoke, the light was still streaming through the windows and he felt a little better. He sat up too quickly and the pain in his head pitched back to life. Stumbling to rest on all fours, he used the toilet and sink to aid him to his feet and stood still for a second while the world righted its self again. 

Blindly he made his way out of the bathroom and along the hall to the kitchen, the wall as his guide and aid to standing.  

Water. He was so thirsty but didn’t trust his stomach not to betray him again so opted not to down a pint of it like he wanted, but filled a glass and took a sip. The cool liquid woke his taste buds and reminded him of the reason he was in the bathroom. Swilling it round his mouth he spat into the sink. Twice this action was repeated until he could only vaguely taste the acid. His face screwed up, he sipped. His throat burned but accepted the liquid. He forced himself to finish the glass in slow, pained sips and felt bloated from too much water too quickly. He poured another glass and rummaged in a drawer to find the painkillers. Two forced tablets later, he and his glass of water used the wall to regain entry back to his room and to his bed. 

Clearing a space on his side table he set the glass down and looked at the time. Around noon, today would be lost. He lowered himself to bed but remained in a seating position where, eyes closed he reached for the glass and forced himself to sip it until its contents were gone. Shuffling down slowly, to not disturb his head any further, he lay down fully and fell into sleep, listening to the thump-thump of his head and cursing himself for getting into this state again.  

 

~~~ x ~~~

 

Hours later he woke to a dim light. Evening had fallen and he’s missed an entire day in his recovery.  His head still ached and he was still tired but having told himself with resolution that he must get up and make himself feel better, he dragged his feet to the floor and stood with more assurance than before.  

The room came into focus and he noted the disarray that it was in. Making a mental note to use some of his time in the next few free days he had to clean up, he padded to the toilet.  

Turning his nose up at the smell of sick that lingered he turned the shower on and relieved himself. Steam filled the small room and he sighed as the warm water drenched his skin. The smell of his shampoo and shower gel masked the odour in the room and woke him further. Starting to feel more like a normal person he stepped out the shower and towelled off, wrapping the towel round his waist as he moved into the kitchen.  

He opened the kitchen window and let in the cool breeze that the evening brought. The smells from the restaurant over the road wafted into the room and made his stomach rumble with emptiness. Unable to stand leaving the apartment, he took more painkillers and made a simple cheese sandwich, eating slowly and taking time to thoroughly chew, not wanting to provoke any unnecessary reactions. 

Feeling better, he made a cup of tea and just as he moved from the kitchen to the lounge to laze the evening on the sofa, he remembered. He didn’t come back here alone last night, which was part of the reason he felt so grubby before.

He entered the lounge and set the tea down on a stack of magazines then walked back around the entire apartment, searching for the missing person.   


She was gone. When, he didn’t know. Sometime after he passed out the night before maybe, he was in no fit state. He didn’t remember her leaving, but then again he didn’t remember a lot of things. He was glad she’d gone; he always hated dealing with the crap that came after these kinds of things. She understood how it worked it seemed, left without leaving a trace that she was ever there. The best way, she was no fool and neither was he. She knew the game and played by the rules, he would do her the same service if it were him.   

He smiled grimly and went back to the lounge and dozed on the sofa.


	2. Artful Deception

The notion that in some places you could go anywhere and no one would know you had always appealed to him. If you stayed somewhere for too long, you got to know people even if you didn’t want to and they got to know you as well. You became ‘that man upstairs’ or ‘that guy who never tips’; maybe you’re mysterious and unknown, or perhaps they think they have you all figured out.

 

In a new place you could be whoever you wanted. You could give a different name, make a past up for yourself, hide from your demons behind a persona of make believe. You’d always know though, as there was no fooling yourself. 

 

They say the things you have done come back to haunt you. Maybe they do, but sometimes the worst demons are the ones that you carry around with you. You never escape them, no matter how you try to change or fool yourself by taking a different name; you’re still the same person. Andy Stevenson, Michael Davies and Simon Anders...they all had the same problems and people still say the same things about them as they would about him. 

He knew this. 

He was Andy in Spain. He worked in bars and laughed with tourists. He took random women back to his small, grubby flat above the grocers and had long nights of passionless sex with them until he made them leave for trying to hold him in the night in an attempt to coax comfort from him. He never got close to anyone. The locals liked him. He worked hard and laughed at their jokes and stories, but he never told them anything about himself. He never added an anecdote of his own to the mix, only smiling and nodding politely. He never hurt anyone, but he drank heavily sometimes, making people feel uncomfortable around him when he did. There was something sad about him that they couldn’t put their finger on. The girls took it in turns to try and find out his secrets; they all failed. He left when their questions became an irritation. He had become a curiosity and an intrigue, this Andy, this man with the English accent.

 

He was Michael in Italy. He slept on the sofa of a man who had befriended him while he was staying in a hostel on his first day there. The man had taken friendly pity on him, offering him refuge from the bustle of budgeted travellers and the gap year students of Europe. 

 

“So, tell me about yourself,” the man had said. Michael had made up a story about leaving home to travel the world and meet generous and interesting people like himself. The man laughed and bought him a drink.

 

Michael left when the man got drunk and threw him out for being too quiet. The man said Michael’d been living on his sofa for three months and while he seemed like an decent fellow, the man didn’t like the girls Michael bought back and anyway, he didn’t know a thing about Michael. It was creepy, the man had said. So Michael left.

 

He was Simon in Paris. Simon made a mistake, however. He smiled too long and laughed too hard and before he knew it, some girl, who he took to bed one night, stayed over again. He let her warm him and allowed her to sooth his muscles. She was soft and comforting and although he liked her company, he never really let her in. Some part of him wanted to tell her everything as she wept in frustration; the truth would scare her and make her cry more if she knew, if she believed him. The next day, he left.

 

All these places he saw and experienced, he should be happy. Most people travel a little on their holidays and see the polished frontage the tourist districts of the cities present. He saw life. Life in Paris was so different from life in Lile or Marseille; most people didn’t see this. 

 

He never showed his abilities. He never sought out those of his kind in the foreign places he visited and though he saw the signs, he chose to ignore them. Sometimes when he wandered through a new place while thinking about his new persona, he would inadvertently find himself staring at something undeniably familiar. It would remind him of home, family, school; everything that he had, everything he mistreated and everything he'd lost.

 

He thought it was easy just to keep running and changing from place to place until he found the proper facade and the place he thought he belonged. Why, then, did he always feel like he was pulling a long piece of elastic that could at any time, propel him back to his starting point and make him face his demons? No illusions, no hiding in a place where no one knew him, his world a lie, nothing but a false name and false smile. Just him, back home, facing his past and opening the weeping wounds of his history, which should have been cleansed and healed long ago had he only had the courage to stand and not flee. 

 

Maybe it was fate forcing him to wander from place to place with no hope or happiness save the little comfort he extracted from his frequent encounters with faceless women. But then, he reminded himself, no one was making him do this.

 

Sometimes, when he was alone at night, when the world was still and calm and the night seemed an endless sea of blackness, he would think about home. How would they feel if they knew what he had become? What would they say if he just came back without word? It had been so long since he left that they would surely think him dead by now. He never sent the letters like he'd intended. And they would be older now, the kids. The memories of their smiling faces and their laughter always welcome. The youngest would be twenty-one now... 

 

Was it possible that he was really nearly thirty himself? 

 

It was time. 

 

He was tired of running. Andy, Michael and Simon were gone, replaced by the one person who could save them all. 

 

Where to go first, though? Home? Would they still be there? 

 

No, not home, too big a step to take in the first place.

 

London. Yes. He'd go there and check into the Leaky Cauldron. 

 

He smiled at the thought of it. He could still smell the dusty old pub and his mouth watered at the thought of a nice, cold butter beer. He would check in under another assumed name; out of habit his mind automatically began searching for a suitable one. 

 

No, not this time. 

 

He would check in under his own name; this time, he'd be Charlie Weasley again.

 

~~Ú~~

 

The mode of transport wasn’t an easy choice. He’d avoided revealing himself to other wizards since he’d been away and had grown accustomed to living as a Muggle and only practicing magic when alone. The wizard community was small compared to the Muggle one, and to get an International Floo Pass, he would have to give his name and it was too much to risk. So he went as far as he could by land, then Apparating onto a train crossing under the English Channel. 

 

When the doors opened and he was close enough to see a quiet place, he Apparated off the train and made his way on foot into town. Catching a train to London was easy, and within a few short hours he found himself right where many of his memories lingered; King’s Cross Station. Smiling in spite of himself, he reminisced about his trips to the station in the past, before his life became clouded, his mind sullied.

 

The place smelled the same, of thick air and acrid diesel. The main building leading off to the platforms was as busy as ever. That giant black board with the lights flashing the names of arrivals and departures was still there. He remembered his youngest brother being fascinated by it when he was a child. He took the tube from the station, turning his nose up a little at the fusty, cramped smell of the underground with its rude people pushing and shoving their way on and off the trains. Kids chewing gum and listening to music; middle-aged women reading romance novels and attempting to look wistful; student types looking distant and aloof or pretending to read about deep philosophical subjects in an attempt to look intellectual; older men in their sweat-stained shirts, reeking of stale cigarettes and leering unabashedly at women who clearly felt uncomfortable. 

 

He knew them all now; Muggles and wizards weren’t so different. 

 

His stop was next. He thought for a second as the train jolted into the packed station about not getting off, just carrying on to the next stop to see what was there. But then he remembered why he was there in the first place. No more next stop, no more running. The next stop was his.

 

The train doors opened and as always, people shoved their way into the carriage without letting anyone off. He never did figure out why people did this, though it happened on every tube train he’d ever taken. It always seemed worse in London, though. 

 

He walked out of the station and into a dreary rain, realising he didn’t have any waterproof clothing. Being in Muggle London, magic was out of the question. A short, wet walk down the gum-stained streets, dodging under shop canopies and into door ways soon brought him to The Leaky Cauldron. At the end of the road he stopped, hesitant. This was his last point where he could turn back. If he entered, someone might recognise him. What if one of his family was in there? He had to take the risk. If one of them was there, then so be it. He'd come back to see them, anyway. 

 

With a deep breath, he pressed forward and opened the door. The room was dark and smoky; he kept his head down, moving quickly over to the bar and sitting down.

 

“Nasty weather out there! What’ll it be mate?” said the barman in a soft London accent.

 

“I’d like to book a room if you have one…for two nights to start with,” Charlie replied, thinking that if it went badly after two days he could just take off again.

 

“Yeah sure, what name is it?” The barman asked 

 

“Well, I’d like it to be kept quiet….” Charlie started in a quiet tone.

 

“Yes, fine. What name, then?”

 

“Weasley, Charlie.” Charlie said softly.

 

“Weasley eh? Very well, room 16. Can I get you anything else?” 

 

“Just a large firewhiskey, thanks.” Charlie hunched himself over his drink and consumed its burning contents quickly before taking his key and ascending the stairs to his room. 

 

When the door closed behind him, he cast an easy drying charm, flopping down onto the dusty bed and sighing deeply. 

 

Part one was over; he was in London and back amongst wizards. 

 

A fly buzzed round the room and distracted his attention. After a few minutes of watching its haphazard meanderings around his ceiling, Charlie drifted off into a restless sleep.

 


	3. Nerve Pending

The next morning Charlie awoke, fully clothed still sprawled on his bed in the Leaky Cauldron. Before his consciousness rose to the level where he remembered why he was there, he had a feeling he hadn’t felt this refreshed in a long time.

 

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he felt more alive and full of anticipation than ever before. He skipped breakfast and armed with his wand and a few sickles, he brushed his hair from his eyes and made his way out of the creaky floored Leaky Cauldron and into Diagon Alley. He almost forgot which stones to tap but it came back slowly. 

 

Last chance to turn and around.

 

Drawing a deep breath he tapped the stones and revealed himself to Diagon Alley. It hadn’t changed much in the years he’d been away, not that he expected it to, nothing ever changed round here. 

 

Bending his head and tucking his coat collar up, he strode into the street, taking care not to draw attention to himself. It was a quiet morning on the wizard street. Shoppers were beginning to filter in but the steady rain held most off. Charlie ducked under the canopies of shops and decided to take in the sights and sounds while working his way down to his destination at the other end of the street. 

 

Eylop’s Owl Emporium smelled as ever, like feathers and owl treats and faintly of guano. Charlie sneezed and passed by unnoticed. Flourish and Blott’s had a sale on, no need to venture between their walls of dusty tomes just yet. He stepped in a deep muddy puddle and cursed under his breath. A few paces on and he was standing outside Quality Quidditch Supplies. The new Firebolt was on display in the window and for a fleeting second he wondered whether to step inside and enquire about it. Instead he stood and admired it, shiny and gleaming behind the glass. 

 

He missed flying. Sometimes he would think back to how the wind felt in his hair, the sturdy broom his only saviour from falling through the clouds, the wind rushing in his ears. He used to let go, he’d fly high enough to no be seen, then he’d let go with his hands and hold the broom with his legs. He felt so free.

 

He pulled his thoughts back to reality, staying here would only delay the inevitable, now was the time. He backed away from the window and pulled his collar up again. The closer he got to his destination, the worse his stomach felt, but at last he reached 93 Diagon Alley, the location of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

 

The garish colours were gone, replaced by colour coordinated scheme of red and gold. The script used on the door banner was more elegant, but still bore the signature of Fred and George.

 

It didn’t look too busy inside, but it was still early. Charlie leaned against the wall across the street and steeled himself for the next few minutes. Feeling nauseous and feverish, he pushed off the wall, ran his hand through his soaking hair and strode across the street. He only hoped they would forgive him.

 

~~~Ï~~~  
  


The door gave way easily under his hand as he pushed it open. The shop was tastefully lit and displayed very little on the shelves in a minimalist fashion. Only one staff member was visible, a girl of around 20, dressed in a smart dark red shirt with ‘WWW’ embroidered in gold across the breast pocket. She worse a simple black skirt and gave an air of assured confidence and approachability. A few customers milled around, picking boxes up and peering at their contents, Charlie glanced around for his brothers. 

 

On the wall above the counter were the words:

**Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes**

**Proprietors Fred and George Weasley**

 

Diagon Alley – Anti-Dark Arts and Executive Store

Hogsmeade – Joke and Kid’s Store

Dove Town – Muggle Orientated Crafts

 

All goods available by Mail Order, ask a member of staff

 

 

 

Charlie sighed and glanced around slowly, three branches, they must be doing well. A black curtain towards the back of the shop had the legend Anti – Dark Arts across the top. A sign to his right read Anti-theft charms placed on all unsold items. Taking one last look around and seeing no ginger hair, he walked slowly to the girl.

 

“Excuse me. I was wondering if either Fred or George were here?” He asked without making much eye contact.

 

“Both Mr. Weasley’s are in a meeting at the moment sir. May I help at all? Is there something you were looking for specifically?” She asked politely.

 

“No, thanks. Do you know how long they will be?” Charlie was beginning to lose his nerve.

 

“Should be done any time now sir. You’re quite welcome to wait if you like, or I could take a message.” She smiled at him.

 

“I’ll wait. Thank you.” He replied, feeling sick.

 

“As you wish, who shall I say is waiting?” 

 

“Could you tell them Ch….” Charlie faltered. What would they think if she told them their brother Charlie was waiting for them? No, too much of a shock. “Just say an old friend of the family.” He finished.

 

“Of course sir, I’ll let them know as soon as they are free.” She smiled “Please help your self to a hot drink.” She gestured to a dispenser on the wall.

 

“Thanks.” Charlie replied and she walked off to the back room.

 

Charlie waited patiently in the shop, looking at the products and glancing nervously back and fourth around the room. Fred and George would be 24 now, it seemed their shop had changed he wondered how much they had.

 

Laughter rang from the back room and Charlie backed into a corner and out of plain sight. George Weasley strode through the door with a tall, broad man who looked about twice his age. 

 

“Thanks for your help; it’s a pleasure doing business with you.” He smiled as he shook the man’s hand.

 

“No Problem Mr. Weasley, the pleasure’s mine I assure you.” The man replied.

 

“Well, stop by when you can and I’ll be in touch about the order.” 

 

The shook hands and the man left the shop. The nice shop assistant approached George and quietly spoke to him, Charlie assumed she was delivering his message. His assumptions were proved correct when George’s expression changed to slightly surprised and his eyes looked around the room. Charlie wanted to run as fast as he could but in an instant George’s eyes met his and he became paralysed.

 

The look of recognition was instant on George’s face and he stood there, staring at Charlie, shocked to the core.

 

“George.” Charlie said quietly, stepping out of the shadow of the corner. 

 

George’s hand flew in front of him in a signal to stop. 

 

“Fred!” George called. There was no reply. “ _FRED!!”_ He bellowed.

 

“Wait a sec.” A muffled reply came from the back room.

 

“ _Fred I swear to Merlin, get your ass out here right now!! I’m not joking!”_ George’s eyes never left Charlie’s.

 

“Alright, alright what is it?” Fred strode through to the shop and stopped dead when he saw what George was pointing at. 

 

“Charlie?” Fred asked, stepping closer. “Is it you?” 

 

“Yeah.” Charlie replied. “I…I just got back to London. I didn’t know where to start, so I came here. Nice place you have.” Charlie almost thought he might start talking about the weather just to fill the uncomfortable silence.

 

“Charlie.” Fred stepped closer, a look of emotional liberation and disbelief on his face. George remained still. 

 

Charlie almost thought he might cry as he looked at his little brother. Fred’s eyes were watering as he walked closer.

 

“We though you were dead. It’s been five years Charlie. Mum……we thought you were dead.” Fred said, stepping closer still. 

 

With every step Fred took, Charlie felt relief flow through him. It was going to be ok, Fred was happy to see him, George was in shock but that was ok. If they were ok with this then everyone else would be too. 

 

Every second took a lifetime as Fred walked across the room to Charlie. The closer he got the more Charlie was convinced he would hug him and tell him he missed him. Just as Fred got close enough his face turned from emotionally surprised, to blazingly angry and Fred’s fist connected with Charlie’s nose before he could do anything about it.

 

Charlie clutched his face, crying out in pain as Fred’s fist connected with his side, bending him double. 

 

“What the fuck???” Charlie yelled. The blood poured from his nose, his brain felt like it would tear in two. 

 

“FIVE YEARS CHARLIE! WE THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD! ALL THIS TIME YOU SELFISH BASTARD! HOW COULD YOU DO THAT???” Fred shouted in his face then punched him again.

 

“Aaahhh……stop…..I’m sorry.” Charlie choked. 

 

“SORRY??? YOU’RE SORRY??? FUCK YOU CHARLIE! FUCK YOU.” Fred screamed with poison into his face.

 

“Fred stop.” George’s voice came calm from across the room. “He obviously had a good reason for what he did.” George crossed the room and pulled Fred back. 

 

Fred seethed at George but said nothing, he stepped back and walked slowly backwards. The customers in the shop had either fled or were staring numbly at the actions of the owners. This would be all over Diagon Alley in an hour. The shop assistant stood dumbfounded at the scene. 

 

George stepped towards Charlie. 

 

“So?” He said calmly.

 

Charlie bent his blood covered head up towards George and looked pleadingly into his eyes. 

 

“I…….I….I’m sorry.” Charlie whispered, not being able to find the right words.

 

“Not good enough Charlie. Get out.” George replied.

 

“What? You’re kicking me out? But…..George I….”

 

“Charlie. Get. Out. Last chance.” George said dangerously at him.

 

“George…please.” Charlie pleaded.

 

“OUT! You’re dead Charlie. We are not going to tell anyone about this so you can leave again and forget we ever existed, just like you did for the last FIVE YEARS!!!” 

 

George grabbed him by the scruff of the collar and dragged him to the door, opening it with one hand he threw him bodily out into the street and slammed the door behind him.

 

Charlie landed face first in the cold mud. Soaked though to the skin with rain, mud and his own blood he ran back to the Leaky Cauldron as fast as he could, avoiding the looks of passing shoppers, and threw himself into his room, slamming his fist into the wall.


End file.
